Stand Alone
by NightFuryofGallifrey
Summary: "You don't stand alone." John discovers he isn't the only one who still believes in Sherlock Holmes. But... alone is what he has. One-shot. Inspired by the #believeinSherlock movement.


**A/N: **Hey everyone! Yes, I'm still working on _The Girl Named Sherlock Holmes_. Sorry it's taking me so long between chapters. :/ I just recently got the idea for this, and decided to write it up and let you all know that I'm not dead and I'll hopefully have another chapter of TGNSH up soon. :P

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own Sherlock. Though I write enough fanfic that you might think I did.

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Stand Alone

John stared out the taxi window.

He frowned. "Excuse me, cabby? We just turned the wrong way. Baker street is…"

"I know."

John tensed. He put a hand inside his coat. "I said I wanted to go to Baker street."

"I know."

John drew his gun and cocked it audibly to let the cabby know he was armed. "Look, I'm really not in the mood to be kidnapped right now. I had to deal with that enough before, and now I don't even have him, so I shouldn't have to put up with this. Take me to Baker street, now."

Up front, the cabby sighed. "Look, Dr. Watson. I'm not kidnapping you. You just need to see something. It'll just take a few minutes. I promise. Please. Five minutes out of the way."

John hesitated. "Where are you taking me?"

The cabby said nothing.

"Tell me," John snapped.

Then he saw.

He sank back in his seat as they drove up the street. He knew what waited at the end of the block. And he couldn't go back there again. Why was he being taken here again?

The taxi stopped in front of St. Bart's. It took everything in John to keep himself from looking up at the roof.

A large crowd was gathered around the front of the building, toting signs. John tried to read them from the back of the taxi, but the cabby got in the way when he opened the door.

John slid his cane off the seat before climbing out, leaning heavily on it. He looked around at the crowd, frowning in confusion.

A great majority of the crowd were wearing deerstalkers. Many of them also wore long coats and scarves. John struggled to keep the memories at bay. What were they trying to do?

His gaze settled on one of the many signs: I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

"Dr. Watson?"

John turned slowly to find a woman standing nearby him. "What is going on?" he demanded, clenching his grip on his cane's handle.

"I apologize if we've inconvenienced you in any way," the woman said. "My name is Anna, and on behalf of the Believe in Sherlock Holmes movement, we want to express our deepest condolences."

John stared at her. "What… what is all this?"

Anna looked briefly surprised. "The Believe in Sherlock Holmes movement. We're John Watson's Warriors. All over the world, people are declaring they believe in Sherlock Holmes. That we know Moriarty was real. And that we stand with John Watson." Anna paused. "You don't stand alone."

John stared at the crowd numbly. "Alone is what I have," he murmured. "Alone protects me."

"Wrong," a voice came from the crowd. "Friends protect people."

John jolted as if struck by lightning. He dashed into the crowd, following the voice. "Who said that?" He shouted, scanning the crowd for a face he recognized.

The crowd parted for him; everyone turning around, looking for the person who had spoken.

"Who said that?" John repeated, his voice borderline in a frenzy.

People in deerstalkers and long coats shook their head, but no one came forward.

John closed his eyes and shook his head. Anna came over to him. "Are you alright?" She asked, her voice concerned. "I'm sorry, is it too much…"

John shook his head. "No," he said, his voice hoarse. "No. I'm sorry. It's just… I thought…" he broke off and shook his head. It was just the coats and ear hats that was reminding him of… him. He opened his eyes and looked at Anna. "I'm sorry. I… can I go home now?"

Anna nodded, her eyes full of concern. "Of course," she said softly.

Anna walked with him back over to the taxi, keeping her pace slow so John wouldn't feel slow with his cane. He knew she was doing it, of course. But he appreciated the gesture.

Anna opened the back seat door and John slid inside. Anna looked in after him, her face sorrowful. "You don't stand alone, John. We believe in him."

John closed his eyes, silently cursing the liquid he felt pressing against his lids, threatening to spill over. "Thank you," he whispered.

Anna closed the door, and the taxi pulled forward. John forced himself to open his eyes to look at the crowd of people again. To his amazement, nearly everyone lowered their signs and saluted as the taxi slowly drove by.

John leaned back in his seat and covered his face with his hands, finally allowing the tears to fall.

#

A figure ducked into an alleyway, cursing himself for his stupidity. Sherlock kept the deerstalker on, pulling it down lower to shield his face, though his disguise was strong enough not even Mycroft would be able to tell it was him.

Why had he spoken out like that? Sherlock scowled and kept walking away from the crowds. The crowds in trench coats and deerstalkers and t-shirts with the words "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" blazoned across the front.

He wasn't even supposed to be in London. He was supposed to be in Switzerland, working on a lead to unravel part of Moriarty's web.

But he'd heard about the movement online. He'd seen the announcement for the meeting. And he had to know what it was about.

He had to know why.

Why were they all there? How… how could they believe in him, when he'd been "exposed" as a fake. When he had "solidified" the evidence by committing "suicide."

Something stung at Sherlock's eyes. He pulled the deerstalker lower, suddenly grateful for the stupid hat.

The hours he'd wasted had been worth it. He'd gotten to see John again.

But why had he spoken out?

The stinging intensified and Sherlock swallowed a lump forming in his throat. Hearing John's words had… hurt. He didn't know why they did. But they hurt.

I did it for you, John. To keep you safe.

He longed to speak those words out loud. He needed, more than anything, to tell him. For him to understand.

Sherlock needed to know.

All those people there believed he wasn't a fake. That he hadn't been a clever trick.

There was only one person he didn't know for sure believed.

And he was the only person he needed to believe in him.

_Finis_


End file.
